Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, and I love!” In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong; What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving, all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green-fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, “I love my love, and my love loves me!” * * * * * LEORA. A BALLAD OF SPAIN. At her lattice sits Leora, In the long and mellow June, What time when whitely westward Shines the round and pendent moon. Sits she silent, sits she sadly, With her head upon her hand, Looking outward where the Ebro Throws its ripples on the sand. Never lighter blew the breezes In the vales of Aragon, Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens With more lovely glories on. Such an evening ’tis as gladdens Cavaliers of sunny Spain— Such an evening ’tis when maidens Recount their loves again. Now more restless grows Leora, Fair Leora, gentle maid, With sweet eyes so dark and fervent, And each tress of nightly shade. Heaves her bosom fast and wildly Like a billow snowed with foam, For there’s something boding tells her That Almagro will not come. Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her, On her heart their shadows rest, And the tear-drops from their fountains Fall embittered to her breast. Listens now she to the gallop Of a steed adown the vale; Now with hope her face is radiant, Now with fear her cheek is pale. But no lover rideth swiftly, Swiftly to the trysting bower, And Leora still is waiting Through the long and dreary hour. And the tears cease not to gather, And the tears cease not to flow, And she feels like one abandoned On the haunted paths of wo. Where a mountain streamlet gurgles, From that watcher leagues away— Where the hours amid the valleys Listen to the waters’ play— Faithless Almagro is breathing Vows of deeply passioned love, To a maiden on his bosom In the sweetness of a dove. And he tells her how he never To another gave his heart, Till her innocence is fallen In the meshes of his art. Till another than the midnight Throws a darkness o’er her soul, Leaving there a troubled fountain, Leaving there a broken bowl. Softly sigh the sleeping branches On the bosom of the breeze, Sweetly stars are gazing downward To earth’s blue, unclouded seas: